Hidden File Recovery
by Canadian Crow
Summary: As the old saying goes, this program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down. [Part Three of the Hidden File Trilogy]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: 'Chuck' and all its affiliated characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. This fiction is written for entertainment only.

No profit was made. Not by me, at any rate.

 **A/N:** 8 years & 9 months ago, I posted **Hidden File Command** from a half-functional internet station in Afghanistan. 8 years  & 3 months ago, just after I got home, I posted the first part of it's sequel - **Hidden File Application**. I didn't finish it until 6 months ago.

Now it's finally time to bring the trilogy to it's conclusion with **Hidden File Recovery**.

This chapter goes out to **The Dramatic Sneeze, ne71, gaaddict67, Deus Ex Sub Ubi, vandevere, BillAtWork, Airam4u, Canadian Chucky, and Lady of Pride**. I'm thankful for every reviewer I've had, but you guys were here at the beginning; hopefully I'll see you at the finish line.

I'll do my best to get there in under 8 years. ;)

* * *

Colonel Edwin Guilford (USAF) would have called it an exhausting day, but when you line seven of those up in a row it makes for an exhausting week. It had only taken four or five of those to become an exhausting month, and after twelve of those...you get the idea. Now he sat at the end of the bar, peering into his glass and not-quite-celebrating yet another 'exhausting year' milestone.

Guilford had been a pilot for the United States Air Force since President Carter had been in office. He loved his job and he was damn good at it, spending his career piloting everything from a C-130 to an F-15 over every continent on the planet. But the years passed – as they tend to do – and with each promotion he found himself spending more time behind a desk than he did behind the stick.

It certainly wasn't all bad; rank came with its privileges. Just last year he'd been able to take one of those new F-22s out for a spin – something that the vast majority of Lieutenants and Captains could only dream of – and now he'd been made Wing Commander of the recently re-designated 341st Strategic Missile Wing, responsible for one of the Air Force's three remaining LGM-30 Minuteman III ICBM launch sites. It should have been the pinnacle of his career.

Instead he'd arrived to find an understaffed, mismanaged command and a facility that was in a truly alarming state of disrepair – particularly for a goddamn nuclear missile silo. He had reason to believe that several officers had been cheating on their monthly missile launch officer tests, and the cursory audit he'd ordered indicated that nearly fifty percent of unused nuclear weapons-related materials handled by the wing were incorrectly tracked or recorded. Despite his efforts to restore operations to a high standard, this command had been a goddamn nightmare from day one.

What had him glaring angrily at his double-scotch, however, was the 341st's recently-finalized operations budget. He could barely believe that the House Armed Services Committee had the _nerve_ to not just cut the Wing's budget, but to turn around and devote additional funds to that money-pit of a signal intercept station. Every time the base's command staff tried to shut the station down, somehow the funds would appear to keep the godforsaken thing open for another quarter.

As a matter of professionalism, he made a point of _never_ publicly voicing such negative opinions, but even _he_ found it difficult to keep quiet in the face of such _staggering_ absurdity.

"Unbelievable." He muttered, eyeing the bartender. "It's just un-fucking-believable. Giving an intercept station priority over a _goddamn_ ICBM Unit."

For his part, the bartender didn't respond; he smiled awkwardly as he scanned the mostly-empty bar for someone – _anyone_ – in need of a refill.

"And a _Navy_ intercept station, no less!" The Colonel growled, bringing his fist down on the bar. "A useless gaggle of land-locked squids under the command of a Jarhead; a forty-year-old _butterbar!_ "

Guilford paused as his brain caught up with his mouth. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. Cathartic as it may have been, his outburst had been totally inappropriate – the kind of temper tantrum that was unbecoming of a senior officer and a detriment to base morale.

He peered into his glass again and wondered – not for the first time – whether it was time to move on. Ella had been dropping increasingly frequent hints about retirement, and to be honest it didn't seem as frightening as it had a few years ago. He had more than enough years to retire on a full pension.

Pushing the remainder of his drink away, he resolved to bring the topic up that night at dinner. But as he turned to leave, idly chewing on a few bar peanuts, he was alarmed to find Second Lieutenant Casey glaring at him from across the room.

Guilford stumbled back a step when Casey rose from his seat with unsettling speed; the murderous glint in the Marine's eyes was more than slightly unsettling. He opened his mouth to address the junior officer, but no sound came out. Though a sudden irrational panic gripped the Colonel when he realized his inability to breathe, it was somehow _less_ terrifying than Casey's steady approach.

As tinges of red began to creep into the edges of his vision, the last thing Edwin Guilford felt was the inescapable pressure of Casey's iron grip.

That said, the Colonel isn't actually relevant to this story.

* * *

 **HIDDEN FILE RECOVERY**

* * *

Second Lieutenant John Casey (USMC) sat outside the small bungalow house he begrudgingly called home, nursing a beer and faintly growling as he skimmed over a recent batch of reports.

After the dust settled following the debacle in Los Angeles - and in the wake of the ensuing Congressional witch-hunt - the Pentagon had bust him all the way down to the bottom of the food chain and banished him to the deepest, darkest hole they could find; the Naval Computer Transmission/Telecommunications Area Master Intercept Station Central Detachment located at 3800 feet ASL and about 16 miles south of Great Falls, Montana.

On paper, the strategic purpose of the **NCTTAMIS-CENT-DET** (or "Nactattamiscentdett" if you were in a hurry) was the detection and tracking of signals between potential domestic terrorist elements through the interception and investigation of transmissions in the localized area. In reality, Casey and a team of perpetually terrified technicians sat in a small concrete room listening to truckers on the Interstate compare truck stop waitresses over their CB radios and recording them for posterity - for eleven hours a day.

The nearest sign of civilization was the town of Eden, though to call it a town was impossibly generous. Comprised of only eleven buildings – seventeen, if you counted garden sheds – and home to exactly one family, it would be more accurate to describe Eden as a decent-sized farm. The official reasoning for its placement was to avoid interference by Air Traffic Control signals from nearby Malmstrom Air Force Base. In truth, it was because the base command element regarded the intercept station as a _spectacular_ waste of taxpayer money and deigned to push it as far from their sight as the Pentagon would allow.

Since his arrival, he had not shown himself to be a particularly friendly man. In fact, he had quickly proven to be the bane of every poor soul under his command. He was well-aware of how most base personnel regarded the DCS station – as a useless waste of time and money - and there had been a time when they rarely missed an opportunity to voice this opinion out loud. But since Casey's arrival - and although he privately agreed with them – he'd made a point of coming down _hard_ on anyone he heard making any derogatory remarks about the DCS. So much so, in fact, that he'd recently caught wind of a rumour that he'd actually _killed_ Colonel Guilford for speaking ill of the DCS.

Depending on who you asked, he'd either beat the Colonel to death or choked the life out of him with pure focused rage. Regardless, he'd been particularly satisfied with the fearsome reputation it had earned him. Life was always easier when everyone was just a little bit afraid of you, and so he had deliberately done nothing to confirm or deny the allegation.

The truth was that he'd been in the Officer's Club when he overheard the Colonel making some untoward comments about the men under his command. Although John Casey might not have shown his men much in the way of warmth, friendliness or mercy, they were still _his_ men. He had marched over, intent on firmly reminding the Colonel that that kind of talk was highly inappropriate for a senior officer, when the man began to choke on a damn bar nut. Immediately forgetting his grievance, Casey had leaped forward and performed the Heimlich Manoeuver, likely saving the man's life.

Guilford had lost consciousness during the ordeal, been transported to the base hospital, and diagnosed with two cracked ribs (for which Casey had duly apologized) and a slightly bruised ego. Casey had volunteered to drive him home, and they'd gotten to talking on the way. Casey had mentioned the comments made in the bar (for which Guilford had duly apologized) and the Colonel had mentioned his thoughts on retirement.

Even he'd been surprised when he agreed with Guilford's assessment, agreeing that giving such serious thought to leaving the military probably meant that it was time to do so. Guilford had put in his release papers two days later, been granted an immediate Honorable Discharge from the Air Force and moved to Florida with his wife.

As a result, John could now go entire days without being spoken to or even looked at directly, which was _fantastic_.

What wasn't fantastic was the thought the former Colonel had planted in John's mind. The idea that maybe it was time to return to civilian life, if for no other reason than the fact that military service had very little left to offer him. He knew that he could kiss every ass from here to Washington and he'd never get promoted as high as Captain again or be involved in any operation of any importance. All he could hope for was to spend the remainder of his career drowning in mediocrity; was it really worth spending the next twenty years that way?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the gravel path that meandered through the officer's housing. Nobody ever used that path, so annoying was the sound it made. Those footfalls either meant that whoever was approaching was either ignorant, or they wanted him to know they were coming. Both pointed to some idiot boot caught between the fear of not completing whatever asinine task had brought him here and the fear of being beaten to death by 'Casey the Colonel-Killer'.

Finishing off the last of his beer, he rose from his seat and prepared to tear a strip off whoever saw fit to bother him in his off-duty hours. Then he caught sight of his visitor, and the words died in his throat.

"Hey Casey, how've you been?"

Slowly, John's entire universe collapsed down to a single point in front of him.

"So... err... Montana seems to have nice weather."

As his eye began to twitch, John Casey quite rationally decided to knock Chuck Bartowski's skull into the next state.

"Easy now, Casey." The younger man backed away, hands held up. "Deep breaths, nice and calm."

"I _am_ calm, Bartowski. Don't I seem calm?" Casey growled, flexing his hands menacingly. "You'll see. I'm going to calmly beat you to death. Then I'm going to calmly mail you to eight different states."

As he advanced on Chuck, his foot caught the leg of his small table and spilled its contents across the ground. Reflexively, Chuck's gaze fell to the scattered government paperwork. His eyes widened fearfully as the flash began to take hold. "Oh shi-"

Taken off guard, the battle-hardened marine stumbled back from the agonized scream that followed. The younger man fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain; he didn't even have the opportunity to catch his breath before he was retching his lunch all over the grass. He remained on the ground for several minutes, balanced unsteadily on hands and knees as he continued to dry-heave. When it seemed apparent that nothing was left to come up, he let himself fall back to sit on the grass. Shakily lifting his hands, he pushed the ball cap he was wearing off as he clutched his head in pain. His ridiculous haircut was gone, replaced by what looked like a self-administered buzz cut that did nothing to hide the scar that ran nearly the entire length of his skull.

As the haze of anger cleared from his vision, Casey suddenly noticed how _bad_ Bartowski looked. He knew injuries – he'd certainly earned his share over the years – and there was no question that the impressive scar was very recent. Although the wound had been stitched up professionally, it had obviously been a rush job. The tremors in the kid's hands, the way his clothes looked like they were hanging off him, and his sunken cheeks all spoke of a man who hadn't had a proper meal in weeks.

"I'm sorry." Chuck finally croaked, pressing his palms to his eyes. "That... that happens sometimes."

Sighing, Casey reached down and hauled Chuck to his feet.

"Get in the goddamn house, moron." He growled, ignoring the look of fear in the young man's eyes. "The last thing I need is you dying on my damn lawn."

* * *

End Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: 'Chuck' and all its affiliated characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. This fiction is written for entertainment only.

No profit was made. Just FYI.

* * *

 _[Six Weeks Ago]  
San Bernardino County_

"What do we do?" Ellie asked.

" _We_ aren't doing anything." Chuck stated, glancing out the motel window. " _I'm_ going to surrender."

"What!?" Ellie and Morgan cried in unison.

"It's the only way this can go, trust me." Chuck insisted. "I'm the one they're after and it was only a matter of time before some Black Ops team caught up with me. If I publicly turn myself over to the LAPD, they'll probably let the rest of you go."

Ellie turned to Sarah in disbelief. "Tell me he's not serious."

"He's right." Sarah agreed, reluctantly. "They can't kill you or even vanish you with that many cops and reporters as witnesses. And they definitely can't charge you with anything without exposing themselves."

"Sorry to rescue and run, Ellie." Chuck smiled ruefully, giving his sister one last hug and heading toward the door.

Grabbing his jacket off the chair, he paused to take Sarah's hand. "I'm sorry I have to go"

"That's okay." She smiled sadly. "Say what you will about our relationship, at least it's consistent."

"I'll give you that." He chuckled, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. "If I ever see a phone again, I promise I'll call."

"You better. Otherwise I'll just have to come rescue you."

Grabbing his jacket off the chair, he gave Sarah one last kiss and walked to the door. Opening it slowly, so as not to startle any of the nice armed officers, he stepped out with arms held high and his jacket held in one hand. Unable to see much past the blinding glare of police spotlights, he slowly and deliberately turned in a slow circle, making sure it was totally obvious that he was unarmed.

He took a deep breath as he turned to glance as the approaching SWAT officers. "I surrend..."

Then a white-hot lance of pain blazed a path through his skull and sent him plunging into darkness.

* * *

 _Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Los Angeles_

Paul Cooper, the overnight morgue assistant, was only half an hour into his shift when the phone rang. For a moment, he seriously considered letting it ring before his fear of the Chief Coroner's wrath won out.

"Cedars-Sinai Morgue, Paul speaking." He droned. "How can I help you?"

"Coop!" The caller barked. "It's Devon Woodcombe."

"Hey. What's up, doc?"

"Things are most intensely _not_ awesome, Cooper."

"Shitty." The young man replied, taking a moment to pick at a mustard stain on his shirt. "What can I do for ya?"

"You got any JD's in the locker right now?"

Cooper laughed. "Bro, I got 'em coming out my ears."

"Alright, listen closely." Devon continued. "Do you know how to get to Wrightwood?"

"Uh...I dunno, man."

"Doesn't matter. Do you remember the time you got high at work and sent out all those death certificates for people who were still alive? Remember how I took the heat for it?"

"Hells yeah, bro." Cooper grinned. "You totally saved my ass."

"Good." Devon stated. "Because I'm calling in a favor."

* * *

Tucking his phone away as he approached the small San Bernardino County ambulance station, Devon took a moment to size up the security – or lack thereof.

The largest obstacle was the chain link fence surrounding the unremarkable, single-story structure. For a guy whose average weekend included scaling rock faces, that really wasn't much of a hindrance. He took a moment to make sure there were no _obvious_ witnesses, then he was over the fence in a matter of seconds and sprinting between the parked ambulances toward the station building.

A paramedic he knew once told him that ambulances were commonly left with their keys in the ignition. That was so that when a call came in, nobody was left scrambling for a lost keyring when they should already be on the road. He'd also learned that county ambulance services had a vicious rate of employee turnover. Plenty of folks became paramedics because they wanted to help people, but most were ill-prepared for the harsh realities of the job. All too often, saving lives took a back seat to picking up a junkie that'd died two days earlier or scraping some idiot motorcyclist's brains off the pavement because he couldn't have been bothered to wear a helmet. Some of the busier stations, if they were in a rough neighborhood or close to a particularly nasty stretch of highway, had an average burnout time of three months. Unfortunately for the county, it meant that experienced medics were in short supply.

Fortunately for Devon, that meant that new faces weren't unusual.

He was surprised to find the side door unlocked, though judging by the cigarette butts strewn about and fire extinguisher being used to prop the door open, security wasn't really going to be an issue. He slipped inside and made his way to the locker room. Mentally going over his checklist, he gathered up enough pieces for two passable paramedic uniforms. On his way out, he quickly scrawled an illegible name on the vehicle sign-out sheet.

 _Who knew?_ He thought as he hurried out to the vehicle compound. _Doctor's handwriting has an upside._

He chose the ambulance nearest to the compound's exit ramp. Climbing in, he put it in neutral and released the parking brake. Slowly but surely, the heavy vehicle began to roll toward the exit. He started the engine just as he was reaching the street and headed east for three blocks. Pulling up to a darkened alleyway, he didn't have to wait long before the passenger door swung open and his partner in crime jumped in.

"It's about goddamn time." Bryce grumbled as Devon smoothly pulled back into traffic.

* * *

"Where the fuck is he?" Cooper muttered to himself, once more glancing into the trunk of his rusted Civic. Just as they had been a moment before, the three bodies he'd 'liberated' from the hospital morgue were still laying there. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat, puzzling over Doc Woodcombe's unusual request.

It wasn't the corpses, per se – this wasn't the first time that a doctor had called him up in the middle of the night and asked for an unidentified body to be taken to a third location. Some of the less reputable medical schools in California paid decent money for cadavers, so it wasn't uncommon for the occasional John Doe to go missing from the morgue. It was usually matched by a few hundred dollars appearing in Cooper's locker.

What _was_ unusual was that Doc Woodcombe hadn't been vague about what he wanted. He hadn't danced around the issue _at all_. Without any preamble, he said he wanted three bodies, all male, taken to a very specific location. He even gave approximate dimensions for height  & weight.

Every time he heard the distinctive wail of police sirens, Cooper's heart began to race. If the sirens started getting closer Cooper would start getting nervous, as only a man sitting on a lonely back road with a trunk full of dead bodies can be. He was just about to call it quits when the roar of an engine caught his attention and an ambulance came speeding around the corner, coming to a halt right in front of him. A man he didn't recognize emerged from behind the wheel, shoving Cooper to one side as he rushed toward the young man's car. "Move!"

He started hauling the first body out of his trunk and toward the waiting ambulance, then another. Cooper moved to help him with the third when the ambulance's side door opened to reveal Devon, his shirt stained with blood.

"Hey, whoa now." Cooper muttered, backing away. "I don't know what kinda fucked up shit is happening here, but I'm out _._ You and me are even, Woodcombe."

The stranger gave him a sharp look, reaching under his jacket and producing what even Cooper recognized as a silenced pistol.

"Whoa, dude." He said shakily, raising his hands. "I didn't see nothing, I swear."

"Bryce!" Woodcombe barked. "Let him go."

Cooper was smart enough to get while the getting was good. Taking advantage of the scary man's momentary distraction, he bolted back to his Civic and practically leaped in.

"Oh god, oh god..." He prayed as he fumbled with the ignition. He nearly wept with joy when the engine finally turned over, not looking back as he sped away. Ignoring the sound of the car's half-rusted undercarriage striking a particularly large rock on the roadside, he slammed the gas pedal down and made for the main road.

Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Cooper watched the lights of the ambulance fade into the distance and swore to any deity that might have been listening that his body-snatching days were _over_.

* * *

"It would have been better to kill him." Bryce noted, holstering his weapon as he watched the Civic make its escape. Devon didn't bother to respond, climbing back into the ambulance to check on his patient.

The round had struck the mid-frontal bone and ground a bloody furrow that stretched almost the full length of Chuck's head. By virtue of some ballistic factor Devon wouldn't pretend to understand, the round hadn't penetrated the skull. Unfortunately, it still would have felt like being hit with a sledgehammer.

He'd read case studies about people who'd survived being shot in the head, but even the most positive recoveries still presented a grim picture for Chuck's future. The ambulance's equipment was limited; there was no way to tell the condition of Chuck's brain. The younger man's heartbeat was steady, but if his brain was swelling inside his skull there was no way of telling how long that would continue to be the case. For the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, he wished Ellie was there.

"We weren't followed, but we've only got about six minutes before someone realizes we're unaccounted for." Bryce commented, leaning in. "How's he doing?"

"Probably as well as he's going to." Devon answered, his hands suturing methodically.

"That the best you can do?"

"Excuse me? The best _I_ can do?!" Devon snapped indignantly. "How about we talk about your damn aim?!"

"What are you..."

"I very specifically told you to shoot him in the chest. The _chest_!" He angrily jabbed a finger into Bryce's sternum. "Because I assumed, like an _IDIOT_ , that a big shot secret agent like you would know the difference between the chest and _THE FUCKING HEAD_!"

"It was a 200-metre shot with a goddamn MP5 firing fucking _Glaser rounds!_ We're lucky I hit him at all!" Bryce growled, slapping Devon's hand aside.

"Yeah, I bet Chuck's feeling _real_ lucky right now!"

"Look, it's not something we can change. Can you do anything more to help him or not?"

Devon glared, then returned to his suturing. "I doubt it. He's stable right now but I'm a fucking cardiologist, man. The head is Ellie's territory. He could wake up in five minutes, he might never wake up at all."

"Well, we don't have any more time to waste. Get Chuck's head bandaged up and take his clothes off."

"Oh, man." Devon muttered, shaking his head. "This is screwed up on so many levels."

Climbing out of the vehicle, Bryce tugged the corpse from its body bag and began awkwardly pulling one of the paramedic uniforms onto it. Once it was more-or-less dressed, he dragged it to the ambulance's open door and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. Rushing through the same process with the second corpse, he dumped it on top of the first.

"Here." Devon held out Chuck's bloody clothes. Bryce glanced past him to see his wounded friend wrapped in a foil blanket. "How long do we have?"

"Four minutes...maybe less." Bryce began hastily dressing the last body. Retrieving his sub-machine gun from the ambulance, Bryce gave Devon a mildly apologetic look. "I'm gonna need you to hold the last body up."

"What? Why?!"

"The bullet has to hit a certain way and we don't have time for a lesson in ballistics. We're on the clock here, and I _really_ need you to act like a professional." Bryce raised the weapon to his shoulder. "Now hold up that unidentified corpse so I can shoot it in the head."

"You sure you can _recognize_ the head?" Devon sniped as he positioned the cadaver, squeezing his eyes shut. "You haven't displayed the best track record at telling the differen..."

The sharp report of Bryce's MP5 cut off the doctor's comment. Devon dearly wanted to just drop the corpse, but with Bryce's help the two of them lifted the last body into the waiting vehicle.

"Well, that was horrifying." Devon muttered, wiping away the blood spattered over his face.

"One last thing to do." Bryce muttered as he took hold of Chuck's arm and began binding the man's bicep with a length of nylon webbing, tying it off when he was satisfied with the makeshift tourniquet. Grimacing, he pulled a switchblade from his pocket and prepared to dig the blade into Chuck's left arm, just below the elbow.

"Dude!" Devon shouted, grabbing the other man's wrist before the knife broke skin. Staring at the spy in disbelief, he gestured to himself. "Surgeon."

"Oh." Bryce paused. "Right."

"What the hell is up with you?" Devon anxiously dug through the ambulance's cabinets, retrieving a small scalpel and other supplies.

"I..." The spy closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath. "I messed up that shot pretty badly. Chuck might die because of it, and it's got me a little off my game."

"Well you'd best get _on_ your game." Devon advised as he made a tiny incision in Chuck's arm, catching the slight trickle of blood with a piece of gauze. "Because last I checked we were playing for keeps."

With a cool, practiced motion, Devon inserted a pair of forceps and removed a tiny metallic device from just under Chuck's skin. Acting quickly, he cut into the same spot on the cadaver's arm and inserted the tiny piece of metal. He turned his attention back to Chuck and expertly closed the eight-millimetre opening with two small stitches.

"And that's how it's done." Leaning back, he pulled off his gloves and wiped his brow. "Get us the hell out of here."

* * *

Sitting at the base of Mount Williamson, this particular stretch of the Angeles Crest Highway was at least 20 miles from the nearest sign of civilization and far from prying eyes. On one side of the road, the highway surface gave way to a small gully. Though it was a relatively gentle slope and only about 100 feet to the bottom, it would serve their purposes nicely.

On the other side was a small widening of the dirt shoulder, mostly concealed by brush and just barely large enough for the station wagon that had been left there.

"Alright, I give up." Devon admitted as he watched the other man pull away the camouflage netting to reveal a worn-looking station wagon. "How the hell did you manage to get this thing up here? You were only on your own for, like, an _hour_."

"I didn't."

"Then how did..."

"I know a guy; he owed me a favor." Bryce answered succinctly. Opening the rear door, he shoved some things around and emerged with a car jack. "Grab whatever we'll need right away and get Chuck loaded into the car. I'll get the ambulance ready to go."

Devon scoured the ambulance's cabinets and stuffed whatever crucial medical supplies he could find into an empty jump-bag, then carefully lifted the unconscious man from the gurney. Carrying Chuck as gently as he could, he was pleasantly surprised to find a medical spine-board in the back of the waiting car.

Once he was certain that the unconscious man had been properly secured, Devon returned to the waiting ambulance to find that Bryce had already used the jack to lift the rear tires off the ground. The other man was almost finished securing the last decoy body, clipping the 'driver's' seatbelt in place. Reaching over to the ignition and pressing the brake with one hand, he turned the key and the ambulance roared to life. Bryce put the vehicle into gear, jammed the corpse's foot against the accelerator, and stepped back as the rear tires began to spin.

"The bodies are in place and the charge is rigged." He glanced at Devon over his shoulder. "You just need to send it on its way."

"Me?"

"Yup."

"I don't think...

"Trust me." Bryce insisted. "It's been a stressful night; you need this."

Devon knelt down hesitantly, grabbing hold of the jack-handle. He took a breath and twisted it, releasing the mechanism that held the vehicle off the ground. The ambulance took off the instant its spinning wheels connected with the pavement. A second later, its course carried it off the edge of the paved highway road and careening down the bank. One of the front wheels caught on the piece of debris about twenty feet down, twisting the vehicle to one side and sending it rolling the rest of the way to the bottom of the embankment. Just as it came to a rest, a tiny charge Bryce had rigged between the oxygen tanks detonated and the entire vehicle was consumed in flames.

Just for a minute, the pair of them paused. The night wasn't over yet and they'd be moving again soon enough, guided by the plans of a man to whom they owed so much, and whose fate was still uncertain.

For now, though, they lingered on the edge of that remote highway deep in the San Gabriel mountains, watching an ambulance burn.

* * *

 _[Last Week]  
_ _Malmstrom AFB_

"Have you considered the distinct possibility that he might just kill you on sight?"

"Of course I have." Chuck muttered quietly as he followed the narrow pathway to that snaked its way behind the base housing.

"Well, just don't get too close. And keep your holster unsnapped."

"I'm not an idiot." Chuck insisted, albeit a little hesitantly.

"Could've fooled me. Seriously though, are we sure this is a good idea? He doesn't really seem like the type to bring down a government program."

"An illegal and _viciously_ unconstitutional government program. And if there's one thing Casey believes in, it's the US Constitution." Pausing, Chuck let out a faint, rueful laugh. "Though I'll admit that his terrifying love for the Second Amendment has me a _little_ worried."

"Thanks. That's very encouraging." His companion drawled. "Look, I know guys like this. You're not gonna be able to con him."

"I wasn't planning on conning him. I'm just gonna put on a bit of a show."

"But..."

"Just relax. It'll be fine." Chuck glanced around the corner, spotting Casey relaxing in an old patio chair and nursing a beer. "Head back to the car. I'll give you a call when it's safe."

"And if you don't call."

Chuck laughed nervously. "Well, then I guess it wasn't safe."

Mustering up as much false bravery as he could manage, Chuck eased himself around the corner. At this distance, the older man didn't appear particularly threatening. Even so – and despite all that had changed since they'd last seen each other - he knew better than to sneak up on the former NSA agent. Chuck intentionally dragged his feet along the gravel path to catch Casey's attention; the reaction, though subtle, was still immediate.

Finishing his beer, Casey calmly place the empty bottle on the small table beside him and rose from his seat with an air of relaxation that Chuck was all too familiar with; the calm before the storm. He drew a deep breath, no doubt preparing to unleash verbal hell on whoever had come to bother him. Then their eyes met and whatever Casey had planned to say came out as a choked gasp.

Chuck hadn't been sure how he'd feel when this moment came. He'd expected the nervousness, of course, and the tense fear of being so close to a dangerous predator. What he hadn't anticipated was the surge of guilt that brought him to a jarring halt in mid-step. He abruptly understood, with startling clarity, what the consequences of his escape had been for Casey. He had _ruined_ the man's life. In a single moment, Chuck had taken Casey's twenty-five years of dedicated service to the US government and smashed it all to pieces. All the man had left to cling to were the stagnated remains of his once-proud career.

Chuck suddenly wanted to apologize, to convince Casey that he wasn't supposed to have suffered the repercussions of Chuck's escape. He wanted to promise that he'd make amends and somehow find a way to fix what he'd broken.

Instead, he said the only thing that made sense.

"Hey Casey, how've you been?"

* * *

End Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: 'Chuck' and all its affiliated characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. This fiction is written for entertainment only. No profit was made. Not by me, at any rate.

A/N: Only a year and a half between updates. Relatively speaking, that's not bad!

~o~o~o~

 _[Six Weeks Ago]  
Echo Park, California_

The sun was little more than a faint glow on the horizon when Devon finally got back to the apartment he shared with Ellie. Making his way through the bushes as quietly as he could, he slipped in via the infamous Morgan Door and crept through the darkened apartment.

Following Bryce's directions, he shed his bloodied clothes, stuffed them in a garbage bag and hid them in the toilet tank. Rooting through the laundry hamper for the filthiest t-shirt and sweatpants combo he could find, he pulled them on while fighting the urge to gag at the sour combination of stale beer and body odor that wafted off them. Hurrying to the living room, he grabbed the three nearest unopened beers, chugged all of them in quick succession, and sprawled out on the couch to wait.

Devon hated waiting. He'd always hated it, and this was the worst kind; waiting for something that only _might_ happen.

After the ambulance, he and Bryce had made their way back into the city as unobtrusively as they could. Even as he was laying here, the other man was transporting Chuck to some off-the-books safehouse he had tucked away. Because _of course_ he had an off-the-books safehouse. As badly as Devon had wanted to accompany them, though, his part wasn't over yet.

He still had to make sure no one suspected his involvement, so if anyone came knocking it was critical that they find him here, just as drunk and messy as the last time they checked.

It was nearly noon when someone knocked sharply on the door, jerking Devon out of the half-dozing state he'd been in. Taking a deep breath as he approached the door, he pulled it open to reveal a uniformed LAPD officer. Playing the drunk to a hilt, Devon leaned forward, squinting as he exhaled a hefty cloud of second-hand beer breath in the shorter man's direction. "What?"

To his credit, the officer barely flinched. "Good morning, sir. Are you Mr. Devon Woodcombe?"

" _Doctor_ Woodcombe." Devon corrected.

"Right. Sorry." The officer apologized, not very sincerely. "I was hoping you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Where were you last night?"

Devon wordlessly gestured at the apartment behind him.

"All night?"

"Yeah."

"May I ask what you were doing?"

"Drinking, mostly."

The officer eyed Devon's dirty clothes and seemed to accept that answer. "Did you happen to notice any unusual activity outside? Maybe see someone who looked like they we're trying to hide?"

"No." Between the stress and the lack of sleep, Devon wasn't having any trouble putting on an annoyed expression. "What's this about anyway?"

"We got a report of a car-jacking that took place last night, right across the street. A man and a woman were attacked, and their van was stolen."

"Sucks to be them, I guess." Devon managed to send another reasonably potent beer belch wafting into the officer's face. "Sorry."

For his part, the cop was beginning to look a little green around the gills. "That's...uh... Did you have any visitors last night?"

Taking a step back, Devon waved a hand at the filthy apartment. "What do you think?"

"Right. Thank you, sir. Have a nice day." With that, the officer bid a hasty retreat.

"Sure. Whatever." Closing the door, Devon gently rest his head on its cool surface as he tried to get a grip on the last 12 hours.

~o~o~o~

 _[The Previous Evening]  
Echo Park, California_

"Hey Bryce? Wake up." Chuck gently shook his old friend's shoulder, rousing him from his brief nap. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as Sarah began gathering the others back around the pile of mismatched documents and scribbled notes that only loosely resembled a plan.

"Wha?!" The spy sat up, looking around frantically. "Chuck? What's going on? How long was I asleep?"

"About fifteen minutes. Sorry."

"Seriously? What could you possibly want?"

"We're gonna get back to it in a minute, but I was just thinking about the good old days at Stanford. You remember that game we were coding in our spare time; Zork IV: Attack of the Copyright Infringement? I actually still have it."

"What are you...?"

"I'm serious." Chuck interrupted, gesturing behind him. "I've been tinkering with it over the years, too. It's still buggy as hell, but I can show you what I've got if you like? Y'know, for old time's sake?"

"Honestly, I'd rather still be asleep." Bryce stood and stretched, wincing as a half-dozen joints popped at once. "But now that I'm awake I may as well have a look."

Taking a second to assure the others they'd be right back, Chuck led his old friend down the hall to his former room, closing the gently enough to not attract unwanted attention. It looked like it had been in a half-packed state for at least a couple of months, but it still contained everything he'd left behind when he'd turned fugitive. Despite that, Chuck made no move toward either the desktop computer or the laptop sitting nearby.

Watching the other man wearily take a seat on the corner of the bed, Bryce pinned him with an unimpressed glare. "Okay, what gives? We never programmed any game at Stanford."

"Yeah. I just needed to talk to you alone for a second."

His expression shifting slightly, Bryce dropped into the desk chair. "Well, we're alone. What's up?"

"Okay, so...here's the thing. You and I both know that even if we _do_ manage to pull this off, it won't really change anything." Chuck nodded toward the other room. "As long as someone thinks they can get to _me_ through _them_ , they're all going to be in danger."

"They could just leave town." Bryce countered. "It wouldn't be too hard to put together the necessary documents for them to go under the radar."

"So they can spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder? We both know what it's like on the run, man. I can't do that to them."

"Well, what's the alternative?"

"I have a plan...sort of. It's a little crazy, but it should keep them safe." Chuck sighed heavily. "It's part of the reason I came to get Devon. I needed a surgeon."

"I really don't like the direction this is heading in." Bryce eyed his friend suspiciously. "This isn't some kind of plastic surgery thing, is it? Because that whole bit from that Face/Off movie doesn't actually work."

"Gee, now you tell me." Chuck muttered, rolling his eyes. "There goes my whole plan. Next you're going to tell me that the Six-Million-Dollar Man isn't real either."

"That depends. What's your clearance level again?" The spy smiled faintly.

"Federal fugitive?"

"Then no, the Six-Million-Dollar Man isn't real. What's this plan of yours?"

Taking a deep breath, Chuck took a second to gather his thoughts. "Okay, I first need to emphasize that I _have_ thought this through, and it's probably not as crazy as it sounds."

"That's not an encouraging start."

Chuck laughed nervously. "Now, you should know that I fully appreciate the irony when I say this; for this plan to work, I need you to..."

"You need me to...?"

Chuck sighed. "I need you to shoot me."

"You need me..." Bryce repeated slowly. "...to _shoot_ you."

"That's right."

"Like, with a gun?"

"Yes."

"Again?"

"Dammit, Bryce..."

"Excuse me for being a little skeptical, considering how much you complain every time I _do_ shoot you."

"Are you going to do it or not?"

"We have a messed-up friendship, you know that?"

Chuck didn't respond, tapping his foot impatiently.

"What about Sarah?" Bryce tried to keep his voice low. "Why can't she shoot you? As much as it pains me to admit it, she's a way better shot than I am."

"She doesn't know about this plan, and it's going to stay that way."

"Keeping secrets isn't part of a healthy relationship, you know."

"Did _those_ words seriously just come out of _your_ mouth?" Chuck laughed. "Look, if everything goes according to plan, she'll have plenty of time to yell at me later."

Bryce looked away uncertainly. "Chuck..."

"Can I count on you or not?"

"...fine. I'll shoot you if it's so damn important." He leaned forward, glaring at Chuck. "Seriously though, this is the last time."

"No argument here. Of course, now comes the really tough part." He stood, gesturing for Bryce to stay where he was. "I'm gonna go get Devon. I have a feeling he'll be a little tougher to convince."

~o~o~o~

"Wait. Hold on." The doctor eyed the two of them warily. "Did you just say you're _planning_ to get shot? Like, that's the preferred outcome here?"

Chuck shrugged, laughing awkwardly. "Pretty much."

" _Dude_."

Separating Devon from the rest of the group have proven easier that Chuck had anticipated; all it took was a simple request to speak privately. Unfortunately, that was where 'easy' ended. Once they'd rejoined Bryce, Check had carefully walked Devon through the details of his plan – twice. He'd covered off on all the important facts, explained his reasoning, and even deferred to Bryce's own experience. Despite all that, however, a half-hour had passed and the older man remained unconvinced.

"Devon, I know this seems crazy. I really do." Bryce assured him. "But the kind of people we're dealing with here are ruthless on a level you can't even imagine. They play for keeps, and they won't hesitate to kill us all to keep their secrets hidden."

"And your solution is to shoot Chuck before they get the chance?"

"Buddy, I have gone over this and over this." Groaning, Chuck rubbed his eyes in frustration. "I need you to trust me when I say that the only way the rest of you stay safe is if I 'get killed' and the rest of you play dumb."

"The air quotes aren't convincing me to take this crap seriously, bro."

"Oh, for the love of..." Chuck leaned in. "Look, this is one of those do or die moments. I _need_ your help on this one. This will work, but even if everything goes right, there's still going to be a bullet wound that needs to be treated."

"Yeah? Well there's already a foolproof treatment for those. It's called _not getting shot in the first place_!" Devon snapped. "Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't tell Sarah about your stupid plan and let her sort you two out herself."

"Because you need both of us." Chuck countered. "And she's not going to be able to change my mind."

"But..."

"Y'know what? I'm done arguing with you. This is happening. Are you in or are you out?"

Devon didn't say anything for a long moment, then let out a long-suffering sigh. "Dammit."

~o~o~o~

"Okay, you'll want to aim high and to the right; _his_ right, not yours." Devon emphasized. "Avoid everything below the rib cage. Gut shots are nasty and almost always get infected. _Don't_ hit right on the sternum; shatter that and we'll have a whole world of problems to deal with."

"I think I know how to shoot someone." Bryce quipped, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he checked the magazine and worked the MP5's action.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm not a doctor." He responded dryly.

"Then shut it." Devon growled. "Look, just imagine a triangle between his collarbone, nipple and sternum. That's where the armor is; that's where he's expecting it. Hit him in the middle of that, and it should slow the bullet down enough to prevent any permanent damage."

"I'm aware of how Kevlar works, Devon. Go start the ambulance and I'll be there in a second."

"You're sure?"

"Seriously, don't worry." Leaning into the railing surrounding their rooftop perch, Bryce peered along the weapon's sights and waited for his target to appear. "I got this."

~o~o~o~

 _[Five Weeks Ago]  
Long Beach, California_

" _Don't worry_ , he says." Devon mimicked quietly as the reviewed Chuck's vital signs. " _I got this_."

"I can hear you." Bryce growled from his position near the window.

"I know." The surgeon sniped back.

Lifting the bandage that concealed nearly a third of the man's head, Devon gently pressed his fingertip on the long row of stitches. He was please to find that the wound was healing nicely; there didn't seem to be any kind of infection. That was a refreshing piece of good news, considering that most of Chuck's treatment had taken place in a warehouse office that rated about two points above 'filthy'.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Chuck began to stir, eyes opening hesitantly. After a second, the younger man began to sit up and Devon gently pushed him back down. "Easy, bro. Just take it easy."

"Ellie...okay?" Chuck muttered, and Devon suppressed a relieved sigh. Chuck had been in and out of consciousness for the last few days, but this was the first time he said anything coherent. It didn't rule out brain damage entirely, but it was still a positive sign.

"She's safe, bro. Thanks to you."

"S'good." The younger man nodded weakly. "Sarah?"

Devon hesitated, glancing up at Bryce, and forced a smile. "Last time I saw her, she was just fine."

"Where..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.

"Where are we?" Devon guessed.

Chuck nodded again.

"Seems that Bryce here keeps a safehouse in Long Beach." The doctor glanced at Bryce over his shoulder. "Though I guess old 'Bullseye' Larkin's idea of safety doesn't include avoiding tetanus."

Though the spy's jaw clenched visibly, he chose not to respond.

Looking back down, Devon grimaced at Chuck's confused expression. "I'll fill you in later, buddy. For now, just get some rest. Cool?"

"Yeah...cool." His small amount of strength spent, Chuck's eyes fluttered shut and he went back to sleep.

~o~o~o~

 _[Four Weeks Ago]  
Long Beach, California_

"So, what's the plan?"

"That's easy." Chuck winced as he eased himself into a sitting position. "The plan is that I'm ending this, one way or another."

"Okay." Bryce nodded patiently. "That's a little vague. Maybe you could share some more of the fine details?"

"I'm going to rescue Sarah, tear down Project Horizon, and make the people behind it rue the day they ever heard the name Bartowski."

"I see. And you're going to accomplish these things...how, exactly?"

"It's complicated."

"Right." The ex-spy hesitated before continuing. "Chuck, maybe you should..."

"Shut up, Bryce." Devon interrupted as he came into the room. "You shot him in the head; you don't get a vote."

"Alright, y'know what, Woodcombe?" Bryce growled, rising angrily from his seat. "Let's settle this."

"Guys!" Chuck interrupted, gently massaging his temples as he felt yet another migraine coming on. "I don't care how pissed you two are at each other; please stop making me be the grown-up here."

"But he..." Devon started to say before Chuck cut him off again.

" _He_ is a highly trained intelligence agent with years of experience in covert operations. He knows what he's doing, and you can count on him at least ninety-nine percent of the time." Chuck fixed Bryce with a glare before the spy could object, pointing meaningfully to the long row of stiches running along his own head. "I know you're mad , but you need to let it go. Bryce fucked up and he knows it. He's already beating himself up, so quit piling on."

Smirking, Bryce returned to his seat as he none-too-subtly flipped Devon the bird.

"Cut it out, Bryce." Chuck scowled. "As qualified as you might be, Devon is _way_ smarter than you. He's also probably in better shape too, so stop treating him like a nuisance. I really need the two of you to work together here. Got it?"

The pair briefly went back to glaring at one another, but Devon relented first and held out his hand. "Sorry for acting like a dick, man."

Sighing, Bryce lifted his own hand and shook Devon's. "Me too."

"That was a really touching moment, you guys." Chuck smiled. "I mean that."

"Very funny." Bryce quipped. "Now like I was saying..."

"I'm not letting this go, Bryce."

"Alright, alright. Well, then make with the details so I don't think you've completely lost your marbles."

Despite himself, Chuck smiled as he retrieved a notepad from the table beside his cot. "Fair enough. First of all, if I'm even going to _consider_ doing _anything_ about Project Horizon, I'm going to need Sarah's help."

"I think I've spotted your first hitch, buddy."

"That Sarah is most likely being held by an unknown agency in an unknown location?"

"Yeah, assuming she's even still al..."

"Don't go there, Bryce." Chuck warned. "There's actually a silver lining there. Whichever agency is detaining her, they wouldn't risk holding her in a regular prison. She'd probably escape before dinner, right?"

Bryce nodded, begrudgingly.

"Which means there's a pretty short list of places they could be holding her, doesn't it?"

Bryce nodded again. "Yeah, probably. But..."

"Then we're going to find out where she's being held and stage ourselves a good old-fashioned prison break."

"Come on, Chuck. You have to realize it's not going to be that easy. That short list of yours includes places like ADX Florence in the Colorado Rockies, or possibly one of the classified ultra-secure black sites scattered around the country."

Devon snorted. "So? We managed to break Ellie out of one of those."

"No, Devon, we didn't." Bryce insisted. "That was a secure site, but it was still above board. They were in the middle of a city, and they had an agent sitting at the front desk."

"These black sites don't?"

"Nope. You wouldn't even know you were in one until someone shot you in the back of the head for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, shit." Devon muttered. "What if they sent her to Guantanamo Bay or something?"

"No, there's people there who might recognize her." Bryce shook his head. "Either way, if these kinds of places have one thing in common, it's that they're just as tough to get into as they are to get out of."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, do you have any way of narrowing down the list?" Chuck gestured to the map displayed on his laptop. "Because I doubt we have time to go traipsing all over the damn country."

"Maybe, but..."

"But what?"

"Look, Chuck. I may still have a few resources on the inside, but there's a limit to what they can do for me and the info you're after isn't the kind of thing people leave laying around." Bryce gave his old friend a serious look. "I'll be asking them to commit outright treason. Even if they can give me anything, I'll never be able to go to them for help again."

Chuck stood shakily, glaring at the former spy. "Bryce, maybe I haven't reminded you of this enough; the day you emailed me the Intersect is the day you fucked up my entire life. So how about a little less negativity and a little more helping?"

~o~o~o~

 _[Three Weeks Ago]  
Long Beach, California_

"You guys ready to go?"

Bryce glanced up to see Chuck standing in the doorway. He still looked a little shaky, but at least he was back on his feet. "Yeah, we'll be leaving after your funeral next week."

"Can you not say it like that? It's creepy." Chuck laughed, pretending to shudder. "You're sure about where you're going? I mean... Facility 9? For an NSA Black Site, it doesn't sound very interesting."

"That's probably the idea. Besides, my source said that of all the likely sites, it's the only one that's seen any change in their security procedures in the last month. Then he told me never to contact him again and hung up." Bryce shrugged. "It's not a lot to go on, but it's the best we've got. Makes sense, though. West Virginia has hundreds of places like Black Ridge. Every time a coal mine closes, the town around it just dries up. Buying one out and setting up shop would be an easy way to hide in plain sight."

"If you say so. Just don't go getting into any trouble before I get there."

"I'll try my best." He pointed to Chuck's head. "How're you doing?"

"Better. I haven't flashed at all in the last couple of days."

Bryce winced, remembering earlier in the week when Chuck had flashed on a news story and spent the next hour suffering from a splitting migraine. Even though it had been better than the day after Chuck had started speaking again, when Bryce had mentioned something that set off a flash and the injured man spent the next three hours curled in a whimpering ball, it was still something to avoided.

"Well, that's a good sign."

"I guess. Might make my part in this whole plan a little tricky."

"Yeah. Remind me why you aren't coming with us again?"

"I've got to go recruit someone. I've also got to go head off a potential problem." Chuck answered vaguely. "On that point, have you got any favors you can call in at the Department of Corrections?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. I might. Why?"

"I need you to set up a prisoner transfer. Something relatively low security."

"Oh, sure. Why not?" Shaking his head in disbelief, Bryce pulled a small well-worn address book from his pocket. "Why don't I just get you a fucking attack chopper while we're at it?"

" _Bryce_..."

"Fine. I'll see what I can do. Who're you after?"

"One of the inmates in Montana State Prison, about three hours southwest of Great Falls. He's in for conspiracy to defraud." Chuck grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote down the details. "His name is Jack Burton."

~o~o~o~

 _[Last Week]  
Malmstrom AFB, Montana_

"Damn." Jack muttered, watching Casey pull the young man into the house. Shaking his head, he winced at the memory of the kid's scream. It was a wonder no one came running. "I really hope this kid knows what he's doing."

Outside the small and unremarkable house, Jack Burton did his best to look nonchalant. Luckily, acting like he belonged somewhere when he didn't was a skill set he'd been practicing for over thirty years. Taking a seat in Casey's recently vacated chair, he settled in and waited for the kid to give him the all clear.

Jack wished he could say this was the most complex and potentially lethal situation he'd ever found himself in, but that title belonged to the Guarez-Takashi deal. Helping himself to a beer from Casey's cooler, he took a moment to reflect on the stunningly bold operation - convincing a Triad cell and a Columbian cartel that each of them was buying guns from the other, then transferring all the funds to a third-party account and vanishing. It'd been a rush, but not one he'd care to repeat. Particularly since the only way to keep his head firmly attached was to make a deal with the feds. It'd landed him in prison, but at least he was alive.

Of course, what did he do when he was finally released? He tried to sell a building he didn't own to Sheik Rajiv Amad. And once again, he nearly got killed in the process. It was his own fault for trying to do the job solo, and it landed him _back_ in prison for another six months. After that, Jack had decided that he was done. No more scams, no more cons. He'd finally accepted that it was time to retire before his luck ran out.

Then this Chuck kid showed up and told him his daughter needed him.

What else was he supposed to do?

~o~o~o~

End Chapter III


	4. Chapter 4

Merry Christmas, my friends!

~o~o~o~

 _[Three Weeks Ago]  
Facility 9_

The buzz of the security door across from her was as predictable as the unremarkable man that stepped through it – both occurred right on schedule. As was customary, he placed his coffee cup on the table and set his briefcase right next to it, opening it to retrieve a small notepad. Sitting down, he took exactly two minutes – judging by the sound of his wristwatch – to look over his notes. Finally, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pen – its sharp _click_ sound echoed faintly off the room's stark concrete walls.

He looked up and offered a polite smile. "Hello. How are you feeling today?"

His greeting went unreturned, as always.

"I'd like to have a conversation. Wouldn't you like to leave this room?" He continued, unfazed. The question was met with an almost palpable silence. "If you don't cooperate, this will be more difficult."

Although he once again failed to evoke a response, he showed no sign of frustration or impatience. "I'd like to have a conv..."

"I have nothing to add to or retract from my initial statement."

"Ah, thank you Sarah. I wasn't sure if we were connecting." He nodded, making a brief notation on his pad. His polite smile never faltered. "Let's begin."

~o~o~o~

 _[Two Weeks Ago]  
Interstate 40, sixty-three miles west of Oklahoma City_

"I'm telling you it's only two or three hours south of here." He gestured emphatically at the map. "We just have to take interstate thirty-five to Denton, and it's _right there_."

"Look, I believe you but..."

"Then its route three-eighty to Greenville, hop onto interstate thirty and follow that until we can link up with the I-Forty again in Little Rock. Too easy."

"It's an eight-hour detour!"

"It'll be worth it!" Bryce pleaded. "Come _on_ , man! Do you know how long it's been since I was last in the continental US?"

"We're on a mission." Devon reminded him. "Look, we'll just hit up a Sonic Burger in Oklahoma City. It's just as good without being eight hours out of our way."

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that." The spy growled. "Wait... How do you know how long the detour would take?"

"I didn't. It was just a guess."

"Don't lie to me, Woodcombe."

"Cut it out."

"Let me ask you something, Devon. Have you ever been to rural Tajikistan?" Bryce turned back to the windshield; his gaze seemed to be focused on something far into the distance. "Have you ever eaten the food there?"

"What are you...?" Devon glanced over briefly. "No, Bryce. I have never eaten the food in rural Tajikistan."

"You're lucky. It's terrible. I'd rather starve to death than eat anything in rural Tajikistan."

"What's your point?"

"Every time I tasted another piece of mystery meat in rural Tajikistan, I'd think about home, then about how I'd rather do a naked cannonball into a pool of broken glass than swallow another bite."

"Okay, Bryce. I get it."

"If I was given a choice between a Tajiki farmer's buffet and a scorpion enema, I'd choose the..."

"Oh my god, fine! We'll go to the In 'n Out Burger in Denton if it'll just shut you up!"

"That's all I ask."

They drove in silence for a few miles before Bryce glanced over, smirking. "Hey Devon?"

"What."

"You wanna play I Spy?"

Devon smiled despite himself, letting out a chuff of laughter. "Shut up, dude."

~o~o~o~

 _[Two Weeks Ago]  
Bel Air, Los Angeles, California_

Hesitantly lifting a hand to knock on the door, Chuck paused to consider what he was about to do.

It had taken him nearly a month to get back on his feet, but now that he was, there was something he needed to take care of before he left town. It wasn't going to be easy, but his conscience demanded that he go through with it.

Knocking lightly, Chuck began silently rehearsing what he was going to say. He was about halfway through his fifth run-through when the door opened to reveal Anna's unreadable expression.

"Chuck." She said shortly, her voice flat.

"Uh...hi Anna." Her obvious lack of shock had him a little off balance. "You're probably a little surprised to see me."

"Not really. You came over the east fence about five minutes ago."

He blinked. "How did you...?"

"Unlike the government, our security system wasn't built by the lowest bidder." She laughed ruefully. "Funny thing was, I wasn't even surprised. Of course, I thought. Of _course_ he's alive."

"Right. Look, I just wanted to say-"

"I don't care what you want." She snapped. "Chuck, you understand that we aren't spies, don't you? That we aren't a part of your fucked-up little world, and we don't want to be?"

"Of course I do."

"Yeah? Because the last time you were in town I ended up driving a goddamn getaway car while heavily armed government agents _shot_ at us _._ "

"You volunt..."

"Shut it." Anna cut him off again. "We almost died, Chuck. Morgan has nightmares almost every night about you getting shot. He got your blood on him when it happened. For three days, I couldn't get him to stop washing his hands. He was there because he loves you and I was there because I love him, but we're done. I want you to go away and fucking _stay_ away."

"But..."

"No. Everyone you touch ends up bleeding and I'm through watching you hurt him. As far as he's concerned, you died in San Bernardino. Understand?"

"I..."

"Say you understand, Chuck."

"...I understand."

"Good boy." She pointed down the walkway. "You can go now."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He'd only made it a few steps when her voice reached him again.

"Chuck, wait."

Looking back hopefully, he faltered at her suddenly fierce expression.

"I need you to know one last thing." She growled. "If I ever see you again, there's a decent chance that I'm going to seriously fuck you up for everything you've done to Morgan."

"I..."

" _Leave._ "

Part of him wanted to fight back, to argue that he'd been Morgan's friend almost twenty years, to say that she had no right to tell him off the way she had...but she did, didn't she? Cruel as she was, Anna hadn't lied. Hadn't Chuck blatantly put Morgan's life in jeopardy? Hadn't he put a plan into action that, even if it had gone perfectly, was practically guaranteed to traumatize his oldest friend?

No, Anna was right. As much as he wanted to say goodbye, it probably was better that he just stayed dead. With that thought in mind, Chuck turned on his heel and walked away from the door. Nothing stopped him from reaching the end of the footpath that led to the door, and nothing prevented him from making it to the end of the driveway. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't even bother to sneak away. It wasn't until he'd stepped onto the sidewalk that he was brought to a jarring halt.

"So...you died."

Jumping at the unexpected voice, Chuck spun around to find Morgan giving him an inscrutable look. Anna stood a few feet back, glaring daggers at him but not interfering.

"I thought I heard Anna talking to you, but then I thought that was impossible because you died." Morgan continued flatly. "I know you did, because I _saw_ you die."

"I...yeah, the thing with that is..."

"No, I _saw_ you _die_! You're dead!" The shorter man surged forward, lashing out with his fist and striking Chuck squarely on the chin. Stunned, Chuck stumbled back a step, looking up just in time to catch another slap in the side of the head. His ear was ringing, but he did nothing to stop the assault. Gradually the strikes grew weaker, slowing to a stop until Morgan was left breathing hard and glaring at Chuck angrily.

"You can't keep coming back like this. You _can't_. I can't deal with it anymore."

"I'm...I'm sorry, Morgan."

"Yeah." The anger seemed to bleed out of him. "I know you are."

"Sweetie?" Anna asked softly. "How about you head back inside?"

Morgan looked back over his shoulder. "Actually, do you think you could give us a second?"

She hesitated, glancing between the two men. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I'll be okay." He assured her.

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Just shout if you need me to finish kicking his ass."

"I will, babe. Promise."

"Okay." She repeated, pausing to shoot one last murderous glare at Chuck before she headed back inside. For a long moment after she was out of sight, the two men simply stared at one another.

Eventually Chuck cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "So..."

Morgan didn't respond, obviously waiting for Chuck to continue.

"I really am sorry, buddy. For everything." Chuck re-emphasized. "I never wanted to get you wrapped up in all this."

"To be fair, I didn't give you much of a choice." Morgan admitted as he took a seat on the curb, picking up a few pebbles and tossing them half-heartedly into the street. "I mean, it seemed pretty exciting from the outside. And at the start it actually _was_ kinda fun."

Chuck nodded, cautiously sitting down beside him.

"Then there was the shooting and the yelling and the...the _blood..._ "

"I'm sor..."

"Sorry. I know, Chuck. Stop apologizing." He sighed. "Man, when did everything get so _dark_?"

"I dunno. Sometimes it feels like I've spent a decade just waiting for the next piece of this damn story to unfold, just to find out something else terrible has happened." Frustrated, Chuck kicked at a loose piece of asphalt. "I mean, is it ever going to come to an end?"

"It has to eventually, doesn't it?"

"I hope so." He sighed. "I'm just tired of the universe kicking me around. I'm tired of this whole shitstorm my life has turned into."

"C'mon, man...it can't be _that_ bad."

Giving his oldest friend a faintly scornful look, Chuck lifted his loose hat to reveal the ragged line of stitches on his head.

"Holy shit..."

"Yeah, pretty much." He muttered, replacing his cap. "But as bad as things get, I've got to see this through to the end. They've got Sarah, and I can't just leave her. That's why I came here to see you."

"Oh no." Morgan shook his head, eyes widening. "I'm sorry, dude, but I can't do this again. I just can't."

"I'm not asking you to do anything, man. This plan...the odds are seriously not in my favor. I just wanted to say goodbye properly for once. Y'know, in case things don't break my way."

Scowling, Morgan turned to glare at him. "Alright, cut it out."

"Cut what out?"

"This classic Chuck Bartowski pity party." Morgan explained, gesturing in Chuck's general direction. "I dealt with it once after Stanford, and I'm not letting you go down that road again."

"Morgan, I..."

"Nope, don't wanna hear it. You can do this." He bumped his shoulder against Chuck's. "You're literally the smartest guy I know."

"Thanks, little buddy. That's nice of you to say."

"No problem. Think of it this way; if Boba Fett can claw his way out of the sarlacc pit, you can find a way out of this funk you're in." Morgan's smile faltered slightly when his friend winced a little. "What?"

"Nothing." Chuck answered quickly, then hesitantly added. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"There's something I've been wanting to say for a long time. I could never find the right words, but I think it's time I just say it. I may not get another chance." Taking a deep breath, he turned to gaze at his old friend seriously. "Morgan, buddy...Boba Fett _sucks_."

Gasping, Morgan clutched at his chest. "What... what did you just say?"

"I'm sorry, man. I know it's tough to hear, but it's true."

"Okay. You're under a lot of stress, and that can cloud a person's judgement." Eyes closed, he took a few calming breaths. "You're obviously not thinking clearly, so we're gonna pretend you never said that."

"I'm serious, Morgan. I've felt this way for a long time. I'm sorr..."

"Stop. Just...stop." He glared at his lifelong friend. "How can you just...I mean, after all these years?"

"I didn't know how to tell you."

"I think you're just trying to make letting you go easier. That's already messed up, but dude...did you have to bring the Fett into this? The _Fett_? That's just hurtful."

"I love you, man, but it's time for you to face facts. I mean, Boba Fett is a bounty hunter..."

"No." Morgan snapped. "Boba Fett is _the_ bounty hunter."

"Sure, but that means bringing your target in, dead or alive. Hell, Fett even _says_ he needs take Solo back to Jabba alive." Chuck leaned forward. "So why, when addressing a whole pack of bounty hunters, did Vader have to stop in front of Fett and _very specifically_ say that they weren't allowed to disintegrate anyone?"

"Please. Vader already knows the Fett is gonna be the one who gets the job done. When he says no disintegrations, he's saying it to all the bounty hunters there." Morgan countered. "But the _Fett_ \- the most ruthless badass there - is the only one worth looking in the eye."

"Really? The man doesn't even deserve his own jetpack."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Open your eyes, buddy. Not only does he allow a half-blind Han Solo to activate his jetpack _by accident_ , but he's so useless at operating it that he actually manages to hit Jabba's barge. Which, I'll remind you, was the only stationary object for a hundred miles in every direction."

"That just means that even when taken by surprise, he had the control and reflexes to instinctively head for the nearest safe landing point."

"No, he crashed into the side of the nearest safe landing point. Then he slid off and fell into a carnivorous hole in the ground."

"And he blasted his way back out!"

"Dude, that's not even canon."

"You shut your filthy mouth!"

"Morgan, Boba Fett was only ever meant to be another one of the minions. George Lucas said it himself in the Return of the Jedi DVD commentary." Chuck placed a tentative hand on his friend's shoulder. "George said that."

"Chuck, I... I can't just..."

"Search your feelings. You know it to be true."

"I...I do know." Morgan admitted sadly. "I think that maybe, deep down, I've always known. I just wasn't ready to accept it."

"There are plenty of badasses out there, man." Chuck assured him. "You can find someone else."

"Maybe one day. When I'm ready for that kind of commitment again." Morgan sighed. "For now, I think I just need to process things."

They sat quietly for a while, idly watching cars go by without really paying them much attention.

"Y'know what? I don't even care about your blasphemous views on Star Wars." Morgan said suddenly. "I'm really gonna miss you, man."

"I'm gonna miss you too, little buddy." Chuck smiled – really smiled - for what felt like the first time in a while. "I'll drop you a line, if I ever can."

"You better." Morgan scolded. "Now get out of here before I get all weepy."

Chuck considered saying something more, but thought better of it. Instead he pulled Morgan into a very manly hug, briefly mussed up his hair, grinned, and just walked away.

"Vaya con dios, you magnificent bastard." Morgan whispered as Chuck walked out of sight. "Go kick their asses."

~o~o~o~

 _[Last Week]  
Black Ridge, West Virginia_

"Wait, back up. You gave her a _gun..._ for your _anniversary_?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"A gun."

"It was thoughtful." Bryce insisted, a little defensively. "Sarah loves guns."

"Yeah, and Ellie loves mini-golf." Devon countered. "But if I gave her a putter for our anniversary, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up spending the night on the couch."

"Wait, do people actually do that? Make their partner sleep on the couch? That always seemed weird."

"It's a figure of speech. Like saying someone is in the doghouse. Seriously, are you an android or something?"

"That's funny coming from a human Ken doll."

"How's that an insult?" Devon scoffed. "Ken was in killer shape. Plus he was a total renaissance man. I mean, the dude was an _astronaut_."

"Seems like you've put a lot of thought into this."

" _Plus_ the guy is dating Barbie." Devon continued, ignoring the comment. "That's like dating Marilyn Monroe or Heidi Klum."

"I think you missed my point." The spy laughed.

"Oh yeah? Because I bet Ken never got Barbie a gun for their anniversary."

"It was a Kimber Sapphire Pro! A precision-built match-grade 1911 pistol with a custom grip, laser-engraved filigree, and powder-coated the exact color of her eyes."

"So it was a romantic gun?"

"I don't think I'm explaining this right. It was a very meaningfu... Contact, stand by." Releasing the radio transmit button, Bryce peered down at the spot they'd been watching for the past twenty-four hours.

Since they'd arrived in Black Ridge a little over a week earlier, they'd been quietly observing the covert NSA black site. From day one, Bryce had been astounded by the level of concealment that this Facility 9 place employed. If his contact hadn't told them _exactly_ where to look, he doubted they'd ever have found it. Even the secure entry/exit point below them wasn't much to look at; just a lonely stretch of fence with a rolling gate, a single guard shack, and a narrow stretch of unpaved road.

The facility itself was set up inside a depleted coal mine. Although they'd been provided with a very rudimentary layout of its interior, they really couldn't know for sure what was waiting inside. Maybe it was a listening post, maybe it was a logistics and supply site, or maybe it was a staging point for a half-dozen strike teams.

Hopefully, Bryce thought, not the last one.

Lacking another option, Bryce and Devon had focused on scouting the ins/outs of the site in search of a weak point, and it was beginning to look like they'd found it. The location below was particularly isolated, barely staffed, and what guards _were_ assigned there didn't seem to take their duties very seriously – proven by the fact that the overnight guard had been asleep for most of the past three hours.

Lifting an infrared scope to his eye, Bryce quickly spotted the heat signature that stood out brightly against the cool night air. He zoomed in to identify it, then sighed and pressed the transmit button again. "Looks like it's just a coyote. Confirm?"

"Copy, wait one." Devon acknowledged from his own location, about six-hundred metres southeast. The channel was briefly silent before he continued. "Yup, totally a coyote."

"Got it. That's the fourth one tonight, right?"

"Yup." Devon confirmed. "Seriously though, it doesn't matter _how_ you explain it. Calling a gun romantic is just weird. It's like you're saying, 'Here babe. I hope this reminds you of our love the next time you kill someone.' Does that not sound weird to you?"

"Sure, it sounds weird when you say it like _that_." Bryce grumbled. "What makes you such an expert anyway?"

"Matters of the heart, bro. Literally my specialty."

"Right." He peered up at the faintly lightening sky. "Sun's going to be coming up soon. We'd better get out of here before our friend wakes up."

"Copy that, bro. See you back at the car."

~o~o~o~

 _[Last Week]  
Facility 9_

"Sarah, you aren't being cooperative. I want to connect with you."

Despite years of training and discipline, resisting the urge to leap across the table at the infuriating man took more willpower than Sarah cared to admit. "Y'know, your interrogation technique leaves a lot to be desired."

"I want to have a convers..."

"No sleep deprivation. No water-boarding." She shook her head. "What is this? Amateur hour?"

Her frustration only grew when - as usual - the man failed to react to her jab. Over the last two weeks, she'd tried every trick she knew to rattle him. Whether she went with passive silence, overt aggression, or friendly banter, nothing seemed to affect him in the slightest. Even subtle flirtation got her nowhere; she couldn't even discern whether he'd be interested.

"I'm sure you'd like to leave this room, wouldn't you?" He asked. He took notes as he spoke, and she found it a little eerie that he continued to maintain eye contact while doing so. "If we cannot establish a connection, it will be more difficult to facilitate that."

"See, it's that kind of absurdly obvious statement that makes me feel like you're new to this sort of thing." She leaned a little closer, trying to ignore her growing headache as she dropped her voice to a whisper. "I bet you're the new guy, aren't you? I bet your boss is getting a real laugh on the other end of that camera."

He didn't respond, his placid expression unchanging.

"I'll take that as a yes."

To her mild discomfort, he smiled benignly. "Thank you Sarah. I believe we're building a connection. Shall we continue?"

~o~o~o~

Moving slowly and indirectly in order to avoid being detected, it took Bryce and Devon nearly two hours to get back to the car they'd practically been living out of for the last two weeks. The station wagon was parked over three miles away, well outside the NSA site's surveillance net, and by the time it came into sight there was just enough light that they were able to go without their infrared scopes.

"I'll drive." Devon volunteered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I mean, it's my turn, right?"

"Sure." Bryce grumbled, practically falling into the passenger seat and retrieving his phone from the cup holder. "Huh...got an email."

"Bet you breakfast it's junk mail." Devon chuckled, tossing his pack in the back and getting behind the wheel. "Double or nothing if it's the Nigerian Prince scam."

"You know, I met an actual Nigerian prince once." Bryce responded distractedly, peering at the small screen. "He wasn't very rich."

"Of _course_ you have." Starting the engine, Devon eased the car out from behind the tangle of brush they'd used to conceal the it from view and pulled onto the nearby logging road. Retrieving a worn trucker's hat from the glove box, he glanced in to make sure their 'hunting licences' were easy to grab. If anyone got curious about why they were out in the woods so much, that was their explanation.

Devon smiled slightly, once again reflecting on West Virginia's bizarre firearm laws. No type prohibitions. No permits, registrations, or licenses required. No restrictions against open _or_ concealed carry. There was a case in the back of the car containing three M4 Carbine rifles with all the bells and whistles, both he and Bryce were carrying concealed pistols, none of them were registered, and they weren't breaking a single law.

However, if they killed a single deer – whether they did it with one of the guns or just a sharpened stick – without a hunting license, _then_ they could get arrested.

"Son of a bitch..."

He turned to find Bryce staring at his phone in disbelief. "Dude? What's up?"

"This is from a guy I know in the Office of Naval Intelligence. I saved his life a few years ago and asked him to try and get a location for Project Horizon."

"And?"

"And he got it. He found out exactly where Horizon was operating from."

" _And?_ " Devon pressed impatiently.

Bryce laughed ruefully and pointed back in the direction they'd come from.

"You're shitting me."

"No, I am not."

"Well, that's just great." He held out his fist. "Alright. Rock paper scissors; loser has to call Chuck."

~o~o~o~

 _[Last Week]  
Malmstrom AFB, Montana_

"You've got two minutes, Bartowski." Casey growled, handing over an ice pack. He stepped back to lean in the doorway - effectively blocking the only exit – and glared at the younger man expectantly.

"To do what, exactly?" Chuck asked, following up with a pained hiss as he held the pack to his forehead.

"To give me even one reason why I shouldn't turn you in right now."

"Try another one, Casey." Chuck peered at his old handler. "If you were going to turn me in, you already would have."

"You're down to one minute and forty-five seconds."

"There's no way it's been fifteen seconds already."

"The clock says otherwise, moron. And now that you've wasted more time arguing, you're down to a minute-thirty."

"Okay, now I _know_ you're rushing."

Casey growled faintly.

"Alright, alright. A minute-thirty it is." Chuck lifted his free hand in surrender. "Starting now?"

Casey's teeth began to grind audibly. "You are beginning to disrupt my calm, Bartowski."

"Imagine my surprise." Chuck muttered. "Are we down to a minute-fifteen yet?"

Casey felt the tenuous hold he had on his temper begin to slip. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're playing at, Bartows..."

He didn't realize that Chuck had left the chair until the young man was already right in his face. The front of his shirt was locked in an iron grip and, despite their size difference, Casey was thrown bodily against the wall. The punch he threw was pure reflex, lightning-fast but still not enough. The feeling of his arm being twisted behind his back was paired with a sweeping strike to his legs; the next thing that registered was the feel of cool linoleum pressed against his face and the choking pressure of a knee resting on the back of his neck.

"By my count, I still have at least sixty seconds left." Chuck noted, casually retrieving the gun Casey had concealed under his shirt. "Which is more than I need."

"To do what, you son of a bitch?! Finish what you started?!" Casey snarled, struggling to find enough leverage to throw the younger man off.

"Actually, it's funny you should say that." Chuck responded as he pressed the gun firmly to the man's temple. "Because that is exactly what I'm here to do."

~o~o~o~

End Chapter IV


End file.
